Shame heated her face and she glanced away. Never in her life had she believed she would be sitting in a coach with a man discussing her life as a beggar.
She raised her chin and met his gaze. No threatening shadow darkened his eyes. “Very well. Speak your piece.”
“I am aware of your father’s crimes,” he said. “Counterfeiting is a serious offense. He’s lucky they didn’t send him to the gallows.”
Daphne tried to swallow the sudden lump in her throat.
“I also know that his conviction resulted in his property being used to repay his victims; at least, those who were members of the peerage.”
Another painful gulp. She couldn’t speak. That had been the worst indignity. Her father had betrayed friends in society, tainting them with his dishonor. She had not been allowed to hear the more gruesome details from her father’s solicitor, but she had heard whispers that one man had shot himself after being associated with the scandal.
“I have never believed the sins of the father should pass to his children,” he said. “It is unjust that you should suffer for his crimes. I wish to help you.”
“How can you?” she asked, feeling strangely numb.
“Have you noticed how thetonalways favors a good marriage? The right union can erase even the worst sins from public memory.” He smiled. “Perhaps even for a daughter of scandal.”
Daughter of scandal. The man had a way with words. But marriage? No sane man would marry her. Even the shabbiest modistes had refused to employ her as a simple seamstress because her family name was so blackened.
“But… I have no prospects, no connections. No gentleman would ever—”
Stirling’s soft chuckle stunned her into silence. “No need to fret, Miss Westfall. I am quite convinced I can find half a dozen men who would consider it a privilege to take you as a wife. If you are agreeable, that is.”
“Agreeable?” she repeated. Perhaps it was warmer in the coach then she’d realized, for her head began to swim.
“A marriage auction,” he said. “Polite society doesn’t discuss this form of…courtship, but the general arrangement is this: you meet the interested gentlemen, then they bid for your hand.”
“Bid?” The word escaped in a frightened squeak.
Stirling nodded. “The money they bid will be placed in a secure trust for your use. Contracts are signed and a male trustee of your choosing is appointed to ensure your husband honors the terms. This provides you with money to live comfortably. Of course, one hopes, your new husband will offer you even more as his wife.”
It sounded mad, but... Daphne bit her lip as she considered. An arranged marriage? Women of title and wealth were contracted in marriage to men who offered the best terms. But she wasn’t a woman of wealth. And to be sold into marriage? She stared at the roof of the carriage. Put that way, it sounded little better than the White House Brothel. Still, allowing a stranger to bid on her? Marry her? Could she agree to something so wild?
“Would…would there be a way to ensure these candidates are not prone to hurting their wives? I could not marry someone who…” She trailed off. She’d learned men could be cruel and abusive if it suited their desires, and she had no wish to give away her relative safety in marriage to a man who would hurt her. She’d seen evidence of that enough when she’d witnessed a woman accosted the other night on the street and robbed of her coins. The man who’d stolen from her had beaten her severely and no one had stepped in to help her because she was a prostitute.
His expression sobered. “Of course. I will conduct a most detailed interview of the candidates, and you will have my word, only good men will bid upon you.”
She slid her hand into her dress pocket and stroked the smooth pearls. “You really think men will bid upon a…daughter of scandal?”
Stirling nodded. “The men will be aware of your situation, and I can assure that they will not judge you for it.”
Stirling smiled and Daphne was startled at the kindness in his expression. “Not all men judge a woman for her father’s crimes.” A twinkle appeared in his eyes. “Especially when she is intelligent—and beautiful.”
Heat crept up her cheeks. “When must I decide?” she asked.
“I can give you a week, but I would prefer that you weren’t wandering the streets. You could catch your death. If you agreed now, I can have the auction proceed as early as tomorrow and provide you a warm bed for the night, along with hot food.”
Her stomach cramped at the mere thought of food. She should fear this stranger’s motives—she should decline and flee, but instinct--or intuition--urged her to trust this man. She pressed a hand to her stomach. Or maybe it was starvation that overrode common sense. “Please, consider accepting now,” he said.
She studied his earnest face in the dim confines of the coach. “What do you gain by helping me?”
Stirling didn’t reply immediately, but she noted a hint of melancholy that dimmed the earlier glint in his eyes. “I find that bringing people together, people who suit, gives me purpose. Too many people focus on money and power. I want to create a force for love.” He grinned and suddenly looked years younger. “A tad romantic, I know, but I cannot help myself. I have a certain talent for bringing couples together, and often they end up in love matches.”
Love...Daphne hadn’t thought of love in so long, she questioned whether such an emotion still existed. Stirling might have a talent for making matches, but she would never be fortunate enough to find love. But a man who cared for her even a little—a man who wanted children… Oh my, she hadn’t considered that possibility. Such a man would provide a life far beyond anything she’d dared hope. For the last several months, she’d felt frozen in a way that had nothing to do with wind and snow . . .unable to move, to change her fate in any way.
“I…I will do it,” she said at last, her tone strong despite her racing heart.
“Wonderful! Do you have any possessions we need to fetch, or can we go straight to the house?”
